The Making of a Monster
by Wilusa
Summary: This Original DS story attempts to fill in the murky history of several characters, including one of our favorite villains.


  
DISCLAIMER: _Dark Shadows _and its canon characters are the property of Dan  
Curtis Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.  
  
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**Part 1**  
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The young woman's eyes flew open. Her back arched, and she clawed frantically at the air. "Animal..._animal!_"  
  
"I know." A normally steady, professional voice was shaking. "You're safe at Collinwood now--I'm a doctor. Try to tell us what happened. What sort of animal was it?"  
  
"Man...met him on the road..."  
  
"What?" The doctor blanched. "You're saying someone else was attacked? There's another victim in the woods?"  
  
"No! Man...on the road...said he was headed for Collinwood, too." She paused, panting.  
  
"Walking together. And then...right after the moon rose...something happened to him. Thought he was ill, tried to help..." Struggling for breath. "And then...he turned into an animal. _He turned into an animal!_"  
  
"A man did this? I can't believe--"  
  
"Turned into...animal! Have to get away..." She tried to sit up, gave a strangled gasp, and fell back. Ominously still.  
  
"There's...no pulse. She's dead. My God, we're dealing with a madman!"  
  
"Right after the moon rose," muttered Stokes. "The _full_ moon."  
  
The doctor glared. "I don't want to hear any superstitious nonsense about the moon. She didn't mean the man 'turned into an animal' literally! He went berserk, that's all."  
  
He looked at the Collins men. Standing together, ashen-faced. "I'm sorry. I hope you understand...the maniac probably told her he was headed for Collinwood after he learned where she was going. There's no proof he was really coming here..."   
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"A terrible tragedy, Mr. Collins," said the gunsmith, with a shake of his gray-thatched head. "Horrifying. It must have been a shock for your sister."  
  
"Yes, she's distraught. She was very fond of the governess." The customer hefted the gun he'd been inspecting, and reached a decision. "I'll take this one."  
  
"Very well, sir. A good choice. But...I don't carry the proper ammunition. You'll need silver bullets."  
  
"Really, Mr. Venn! I can't believe you take this werewolf business seriously. Just because the young woman said he 'turned into an animal'--"  
  
"There's more to it than that, sir." Venn lowered his voice. "The moon was full. It was full again the next night, and there were three separate sightings of what appeared to be an oversized, _luminous_ wolf."  
  
"Appeared to be. 'Appeared' is the key word. And who actually saw it? No one ever owns up to starting these wild rumors." He paid for the gun. "There's no such thing as a werewolf."  
  
"You don't intend to have silver bullets made, do you?" Venn hesitated. "Mr. Collins, please let me sell you--no, _give_ you--something else that may serve as a weapon. An antique, in my family for generations. Weapons for all emergencies, that's what we stock."  
  
He reached under the counter. "It's my own. But living at Collinwood, with those woods for the creature to hide in, you're more likely to need it than I am."  
  
The customer frowned. "I don't see...oh yes, now I know what you mean. But Mr. Venn, I'm sure there's no need."  
  
"Please, sir, take it. Giving you this will ease my mind."  
  
"Oh, all right. But I know it's valuable... All right, if you insist. But I'll merely borrow it, bring it back when we're sure there's no longer a threat. You're a good friend, Mr. Venn." Barnabas Collins let Venn force the walking-stick, with its silver wolf's head, into his hands. "I'm amazed so many people believe in werewolves in 1794."  
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"I was on my way to Collinwood," the young man said unsteadily. "I remember seeing the moon rise. And suddenly, I felt excruciating pain, like nothing I'd ever known before.  
  
"I blacked out. When I came to, it was morning. My clothes were muddy. And I was covered with blood...someone else's blood."  
  
He forced himself to look up, into the hooded eyes of Bathia Mapes. "It's true, isn't it? I killed Keziah Springer. And I--I really am a werewolf!"  
  
"I believe you are, yes." The aged witch studied him intently. "I find it harder to believe you have no idea how this happened."  
  
"I don't!"  
  
"Why were you going to Collinwood?"  
  
He looked away. "I was...going to see one of the servants. I wanted to tell this servant a ship had arrived, and brought no news about...a subject of interest to both of us."  
  
She considered that, and decided not to press the point. "You harbored no ill will toward the Collins family? Or Mistress Springer?"  
  
"No. I had never met any of them, till I fell in with Mistress Springer on the road that night."  
  
"Very well. If you're sure you were never bitten by a werewolf--"  
  
"Of course I'm sure!"  
  
"Then there is only one possible explanation. A curse."  
  
"A _curse?_ Someone put a werewolf curse on me? But who...?" His voice trailed off.  
  
Bathia was staring into space, lost in thought. "Perhaps the woman? The one who came to town with you?"  
  
He started. "I didn't think you knew about her."  
  
"I know a great deal about everything that happens in this town. I sensed evil in that woman the moment I laid eyes on her."  
  
"You were ahead of me." He managed a rueful smile. "But I saw it eventually.  
  
"I met her in my home village. She arrived with another man--her lover, till she took a fancy to me. They were pursuing...a fugitive. Caught up with him there.  
  
"There was a general melee, in which my father was killed and her companion wounded. She and I left him apparently dead, and set out together in pursuit of the fugitive. We became lovers along the way.  
  
"But her companion recovered and surprised us here. He accused her of having taken advantage of the confusion and shot him herself, deliberately! She convinced him she hadn't done it, regained his trust...and stabbed him in the back." He shuddered. "I ended our relationship after that."  
  
"I should hope so. Could she have done this to you?"  
  
"N-no. I think she was still in love with me. Even if she wasn't, I can't imagine her putting a werewolf curse on anyone. I doubt she believes in the existence of werewolves. Guns and knives are more her style."  
  
"But you do have someone in mind now, don't you?" Her eyes bored into him.  
  
"A possibility. My...enemy. The fugitive we were pursuing."  
  
"Is this the man?" She produced a sketch from the folds of her robe.  
  
"So you know about that, too." His color rose.  
  
"Yes, I know of the sketches you circulated. You have real talent."  
  
He looked down at the drawing. A stocky, bearded man of middle years. "Not good enough--and _she_ let me know it.  
  
"But actually," he reflected, "it's a good likeness of the man I saw in my village. The problem was that I had only seen him once. I realized he might disguise himself by shaving, dyeing and straightening his hair. I just couldn't picture how he'd look. We found him, but not through my sketches."  
  
She took the drawing back and examined it. "I've been thinking of the woman, a spurned lover. Not giving much attention to this...  
  
"A good likeness, you say. Yet it tells me less about him than about you."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Oh, yes. For example"--her fingers brushed its surface--"every line, every stroke of the pen speaks of hatred. _Your_ hatred. You hate this man with every fiber of your being, with a passion that threatens to consume you."  
  
"He's an evil man."  
  
"Undoubtedly." She shrugged. "I know who he is. A monster, I'm told, with the blood of hundreds of innocents on his hands. And a practitioner of the black arts to boot.  
  
"But what has he done to _you?_"  
  
He bit his lip. "Killed my parents."  
  
"Really? I thought your father died in a 'general melee,' amid so much confusion there was room for doubt as to who shot your paramour's cast-off lover.  
  
"And now you say this villain killed your mother, too?"  
  
"He took her hostage. That was how he escaped. We found her with her neck broken, at the foot of a cliff."  
  
"Ah. A cliff...from which she could have been pushed, fallen, or jumped. Murder most foul."  
  
He was on his feet, face crimson. "Why are you doing this? Why are you defending him?" He grabbed the sketch and tore it up.  
  
She regarded him coolly. "I'm not defending him. Merely trying to drag the truth out of you. All of it.  
  
"But I fear you cannot admit the whole truth, even to yourself. Why you hate him. And why, despite what he is, you feel guilt at having handed him over to _her_."  
  
"I do not!"  
  
"You do." She sighed. "And I sense that unless you can face the truth, neither you nor I will ever understand the nature of this werewolf curse.  
  
"But I can tell you this. A solution to your problem--not ideal, but a solution of sorts--can be found within yourself. In a rare talent you carry with you from life to life."  
  
She smiled faintly. "Give more thought to your art, Peter Bradford. You really do..._put a great deal into it!_"  
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"Who goes there?" Ben Stokes raised his musket as he spun to face the man emerging from the shadows.   
  
"Don't shoot! Why are you carrying a gun? There's no full moon tonight."  
  
"I believe Mistress Springer was kilt by a werewolf, but Mr. Joshua, he don't. He don't want no strangers round here." He peered at the newcomer. "Mr. Bradford, is it?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
Ben scowled, keeping his finger on the trigger. "You ain't thinkin' o' tellin' Mr. Joshua I let--_him_--stay in the servants' quarters?"  
  
"I'll never tell, Mr. Stokes. I swear it."  
  
Slowly, Ben lowered the gun. His stolid features revealed bewilderment at being addressed as_ Mister_. "Then what do you want?"  
  
"I came to see you. Where's the safest place to talk?"  
  
The servant looked alarmed again. "If you think you can blackmail me, I ain't got nothin'--"  
  
"I'm not a blackmailer!" Peter's voice rose in desperation. "Please, I have to talk to you. And I'm sure you're not the only armed man patrolling the estate."  
  
Ben acknowledged that with a grunt. "Safest place will be dark. All right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Moving with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, Ben led him to a featureless section of the mansion wall. He tripped a control, and a door swung open. Peter caught a glimpse of stairs before the older man pulled him inside and the door closed, shutting out moon and stars.  
  
"Built durin' the Injun wars. Don't go prowlin'--them stairs lead t' Mr. Joshua's bedchamber.  
  
"That new house they're buildin' will have secret passages, too. Plans drawn up durin' the War, never changed. Suits the Collinses to a T."  
  
Peter swallowed hard. He had to fight down panic at the closeness of the stairwell, the stale, musty air and Stygian darkness.  
  
"Did you smuggle _him_ in this way? This place would suit him, too. It reeks of death and decay."  
  
"Don't let yer imagination run away with you. _I'd_ reek o' death an' decay if I'd got caught smugglin' Andreas through the master's bedchamber."  
  
"Andreas..." A nervous whisper. "I can't imagine calling him by his first name."  
  
"I've known 'im since we was young. Since the War. He saved my life...  
  
"Saved my life. An' I... What the hell do you want?"  
  
Peter cleared his throat. "I thought I should tell you the _Liberty_ put in a few days ago, with dispatches from France. And there was no mention of his having been guillotined. Nothing else about him, either. No word that he'd been pardoned, or...escaped...  
  
"We should have heard by now. It makes me uneasy."  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
Ben said, "I know when the _Liberty_ put in. Why didn't you come out an' tell me right away?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"You tried t' come, didn't you? You started out here, an' somethin' happened.  
  
"You're the werewolf."  
  
He said it flatly, without emotion. With dead certainty.  
  
"Are you going to tell?"  
  
"No."  
  
They stood silently for a few moments. Then Ben said, "You think he done this t' you?"  
  
"Do you think he could have?"  
  
"Maybe. Now. After what we done t' him.  
  
"He never woulda done nothin' t' hurt you, before. He was always talkin' 'bout you--"  
  
Peter cut in quickly. "I think I would have told you about the werewolf curse, even if you hadn't guessed. He may do something to you, too. Be forewarned."  
  
"Ain't much he can do," Ben said stoically. "If he was gonna make me a werewolf, he prob'ly woulda done it the same time as you. But that couldn't hurt me much, an' he knows it. A problem that bad would jest give me the courage t' kill myself.   
  
"My life is as miserable as it can be, right now. I'll never git away from Joshua Collins an' his family, till the day I die."  
  
"You're not working here by choice?" Peter was honestly surprised.  
  
"Hell, no. Tryin' t' git home after the War, I had t' steal t' survive. I got caught an' thrown in jail, then bound out t' Joshua Collins. Cruelest man I ever met... The long an' short of it is, if I look crooked, he'll have me in jail again. An' next time they'll throw away the key.  
  
"I could kill 'im an' run fer it, I s'pose. Times like this, he trusts me with a gun. But I couldn't git away.  
  
"An' besides, I ain't never kilt no one, even in the War. I could do it in the sense o' havin'--what's the word Andreas woulda used? 'Op-per-'--"  
  
"Opportunity."  
  
"That's it. I have that. But I don't think I could ever, really, kill...  
  
"If things had worked out diff'runt, Andreas mighta helped me. He didn't know I was in trouble all them years. No chance o' that now, but there ain't nothin' he could do t' make my life worse."  
  
Peter thought, _I hope you're right_, but kept his sense of foreboding to himself. Aloud, he asked, "How did you meet him? During the War, you said. But why was he anywhere near it?  
  
"And how in God's name did you and he come to look so much alike? It gives me the creeps. It's easier for me to talk to you here, in the dark, than when I have to look at you. No offense intended."  
  
"None taken." Ben shuffled uneasily. "He was already rich in the Seventies, had a title, traveled all over the world. Durin' the War, he was makin' friends with them French nobles that was helpin' us. I say friends, but I think he caught some o' them actin' like cowards an' blackmailed 'em. That's how he wound up controllin' so much property in France--he's Hungarian, o' course--an' ran afoul o' the Revolution.  
  
"Anyway, I was jest a common soldier, an' when him an' me saw each other--aside from the clothes, it was like lookin' in a mirror! Later, he told me, he got gray young. But he wasn't gray then, an' he had that curly hair slicked down. Coulda been my twin.  
  
"That was when he saved my life. I was standin' there gapin' at 'im, an' I woulda got hit by a musket ball if he hadn't lunged at me an' shoved me out o' the way.  
  
"We talked a lot. He figgered we couldn't possibly be related. So he come up with this fancy explanation about how way back, centuries ago, we was prob'ly in-car-nated as one person. An' then this thing that in-car-nates split in two. I didn't understand none of it, but I vowed t' be his friend forever.  
  
"We lost touch after the War. I cain't read or write. An' Andreas, he spent most o' them years in France. He came back here when he was runnin' from the Revolutionary agents, looked me up 'cuz he needed a place to hide."  
  
"So the resemblance is natural." Peter couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. "I thought he might have used black magic to make himself your double."  
  
"Black magic? No, you cain't use that t' justify what we did."  
  
The younger man heard himself blurt out, "Why did you do it?"  
  
"Betray him? Not fer the reason Danielle thought, not fer the sake o' sleepin' with her. But if she was willin' t' sleep with me, I woulda been a fool not to...  
  
"Uh, sorry, Mr. Bradford."  
  
"That's all right."  
  
"I was jest nervous, after I met her in the Eagle an' she got t' tellin' me 'bout this criminal she was lookin' for, an' all the awful things he done in France. If Mr. Barnabas had been here--Barnabas Collins--I woulda gone t' him an' told him the whole story, asked his advice. But he was away, down in Martinique.  
  
"The only other one o' them I trust, sort of, is Barnabas's uncle Jeremiah. But I didn't tell him nothin'. Jest said I was curious 'bout this notorious Count I'd heard of from a French traveler. An' Mr. Jeremiah--he's smart, travels a lot an' gits letters from friends everywhere--he said all the horror stories was true.  
  
"I fretted fer days after that. Kep' thinkin' as how I'd been out o' touch with Andreas fer nigh on twenty years, maybe he really was the monster they said... So I betrayed him."  
  
Another long pause. "When he found out what I done, he looked at me like I was Judas Iscariot.  
  
"I still have doubts. One thing keeps naggin' at me. Hidin' out here, he was dressin' in my clothes, keepin' his distance from me most o' the time, posin' as me when folks saw 'im. He was gittin' away with it--disguisin' 'is accent, an' I don't usually talk much nohow.  
  
"But no matter how much he looked an' sounded like me, he had t' know that if I told on 'im, there was no way he could cast doubt on which of us was which. There was too many things I knowed an' the Collins family knowed, that he didn't.  
  
"Here's what gits t' me. If he's as evil as people say, why didn't he jest kill me--so he'd never have t' worry 'bout me talkin'--an' take over my identity fer as long as he needed it?"  
  
The question hung in the air.  
  
At last Ben said, "Ain't you curious what he said about you?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"I think you should know, he was real sure--"  
  
"He's nothing to me."  
  
"He said you look like his mother's people."  
  
"I don't want to hear it!"  
  
"The way he told it, he didn't desert yer mother all them years ago in Boston. It was her what walked out on him, after she caught 'im at some kind o' magic. He said it was white magic, not black, but it was all one t' her.  
  
"An' he didn't kill her, or Caleb Bradford either. He said Danielle kilt Caleb, 'cuz she'd taken a shine t' you. She wanted you t' think Andreas'd done it, so you'd be riled enough t' go after 'im with 'er.  
  
"As fer yer mother, he said he pretended t' take 'er hostage, at her suggestion. She wanted t' run off with 'im. But while they was backin' away, him with a knife at 'er throat--that he never woulda used--they saw Danielle kill Caleb. An' yer mother felt so guilty that later, she kilt herself. Andreas couldn't stop her.  
  
"Course, he may o' been lyin'... But I'll always wonder. Won't you?"  
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Jeremiah Collins put his stack of letters aside, took another sip of tea, and debated getting something stronger. He'd been a fool to hope the foreign mail, recently arrived on the _Lexington_, would improve his mood. All it told him was that Europe was collapsing into chaos as rapidly as Collinsport... _No, not quite as rapidly as Collinsport_, he thought grimly, remembering the previous night.  
  
He leaned back in the wing chair and closed his eyes. He had despaired of ever understanding the situation in France. Who was lying about whom, which of the beleaguered aristos had really been guilty of anything beyond being wealthy and thoughtless. Jeremiah's once trusted correspondents contradicted one another, and themselves, with depressing regularity.  
  
A buried memory stirred. Months back, someone had asked him about the character of a specific aristo--that Hungarian-born Count, with the odd name beginning with _P_. And he had condemned the man, on the strength of the opinion of one of the Cordier family. Now he felt a touch of remorse. If he had it to do over, he'd say he didn't know. Who in blazes had asked him that question?  
  
He wracked his brain, then relaxed. The indentured servant, Stokes, asking out of simple curiosity. No harm done.  
  
Barnabas strode into the drawing room and headed straight for the liquor supply. Poured himself a glass of whiskey, and downed it at one gulp.  
  
"Bit early in the day for that, isn't it, nephew?" The form of address was a private joke. Barnabas was indeed Jeremiah's nephew, but the age difference was measured in days. "I'm glad to see you. I want to thank you for lending me--"  
  
His kinsman turned to face him, and he stifled a gasp. "My God, man, what's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost."  
  
"I just came from town." Barnabas's hands shook as he poured another drink. "The killer struck again last night, the night of the full moon. Three more victims."   
  
_"Three?"_  
  
"That's not the worst of it. One of them was Paulus Venn."  
  
"Oh God, no. That nice old man..." Suddenly, Jeremiah made the connection. "Barnabas, you can't blame yourself! His giving you the cane made sense. No one would have expected the werewolf to strike in the heart of town--"  
  
"There's no such thing as a werewolf!"  
  
"No...no, of course not. You're right."  
  
"But the killer must believe he's a werewolf," Barnabas mused. "That would explain his only striking when the moon is full. And Venn believed he was dealing with one, regardless of what his attacker looked like. He may even have been so terrified that he imagined he saw an animal. Maybe the man came up behind him, and the first thing he saw was a distorted shadow...  
  
"So in the absence of that silver-headed cane, he didn't try to defend himself with anything. A shop full of guns--" His voice broke. "Why in God's name did I let him give me the cane? It's my fault he's dead!"   
  
Jeremiah groped desperately for words of comfort. "Barnabas...as you say, the killer isn't really a werewolf. So even if Venn had the cane, he couldn't have beaten him off with it. Not simply because it was silver! A frail old man like Venn couldn't have beaten off a maniac with anything. And believing as he did, he wouldn't have used a gun unless he had silver bullets."  
  
"The killer would have seen the cane's silver head! You and I know Venn couldn't have hurt him with it. But if the killer believes he's a werewolf, he would have taken one look and fled."  
  
"No, he wouldn't." Jeremiah was on sure ground now. "It was night, remember? The light wouldn't have been that good, even in the shop... Where did this happen, anyway? In the shop, or on the street?"  
  
"On--on the street."  
  
"Well, then. Our friend didn't have guns at hand. And the light definitely wouldn't have been good enough for his attacker to see that the head of that cane is real silver. A true werewolf--if such existed--would have sensed the presence of silver when Venn hit him with it. But you yourself said werewolves don't exist."  
  
"Of course they don't."  
  
"So Venn would have been killed, with or without the cane. You mustn't blame yourself!"  
  
Barnabas pondered that, then relaxed slightly. He sipped his drink. "I--I suppose you're right. His death is still a tragedy. But it was foolish of me to think the cane would have made a difference.  
  
"I see you've been reading letters. I must write to Josette. I hate telling her about these killings, but I can't ask her and her family to come here till it's safe."  
  
Jeremiah leaned back in the chair, letting his mind drift. Certain past experiences--involving his late, unlamented wife--had made him far more open than his nephew to the possibility of supernatural phenomena. Barnabas would never believe. No matter...if the werewolf came at him while he was carrying the cane, he would, instinctively, use it to beat the creature off.  
  
As Jeremiah had done the previous night.   
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But at that moment, in Collinsport, Peter Bradford was putting the finishing touches on his self-portrait. He stepped back to inspect his work, then collapsed in a chair and heaved a sigh of relief. If he had understood the witch correctly, his nightmare was over.  
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**Part 2**  
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"There was blood on my clothes again, wasn't there?" Andreas Petofi stayed on his own side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Reluctant to touch the woman, or even meet her eyes.  
  
"Y-yes. Don't dwell on it, Andreas." She rolled over and nestled against him. "You need to rest now, get a few hours' sleep. I'll stay with you as long as you like."  
  
He put a tentative arm around her, pulling her closer. "I can't sleep. Can't remember last night--but at the same time, I can't put it out of my mind."  
  
"At least it's over for now. The moon won't be full tonight."  
  
"It's not over! The time difference...Peter, in Massachusetts..." He sat up abruptly. "Oh God, what's happening to him? Is he still alive?"  
  
She sat up too, looking irritated and uncomfortable. Then she scrambled out of bed, and distance and his nearsightedness made her features a blur.  
  
She sat at the dressing-table, turning to face him as she brushed her magnificent auburn hair. "How can a man of your intelligence believe all this? I've told you a hundred times, Marushka's curse is only affecting you because you believe in it. Your precious Peter has never heard of the old hag. So nothing is happening to him, nothing at all.  
  
"In any case, I can't understand why you care about your ingrate of a son. You offered him his birthright, and he repaid you by trying to send you to the guillotine. I should think you'd _want_ him to be a werewolf!"  
  
He sighed wearily. "I can't expect you to understand. You don't have children."  
  
"I've never wanted them." She gave a hard-edged laugh. "Children will never cause _me_ grief, by their actions or by the disasters that befall them."  
  
"Heartless wench." He said it mildly, without rancor. Mesmerized by her hair, the rhythmic strokes of the brush...  
  
If only he could ignore the glint of silver between her breasts. The pentagram.  
  
He frowned. "I value children more than you do. But I'm afraid I have, like most men, scattered my seed too carelessly.  
  
"There was a servant girl at Collinwood last year. I let her believe I was Ben Stokes. What if she's carrying my child? I had already thought of the distasteful possibility of a long line of descendants--men looking like Peter Bradford, even, perhaps, like _me_--living and dying as servants at Collinwood because it's the only family tradition they know.  
  
"But this is worse. Unless I can find Marushka and persuade her to lift the curse, the eldest male in every generation will be a werewolf!"  
  
She dropped the brush with a clatter, bent to retrieve it. "How can you believe this nonsense?"  
  
"You obviously believe at least part of it. You've admitted I must be responsible for the things that happen, wherever we are, during the full moon. And you're willing to wear a pentagram."  
  
"Yes, that's true. I know you are blacking out and attacking people. But only because you believe you must! And it's the same thing with pentagrams. I know they really do protect me, and the servants--but only because of your belief in them."  
  
"You still deny a physical transformation takes place?"  
  
"Of course. It's impossible. You yourself don't claim to have seen it. To have looked in the mirror and seen the face of a wolf..."  
  
"No, I can't remember it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. What about the sightings?"  
  
"Pure invention. People hear of...bestial attacks during the full moon, and they improve the story by claiming to have seen a huge wolf that glows in the dark."  
  
"I wish I could believe that." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat watching her. She had her back to him now, nervously shuffling cosmetics on the table. "How can you deny Marushka's power? She saved my life, sent my enemy to the guillotine in my place."  
  
"How do you know she did it by magic? Perhaps she used...political influence."  
  
That took him so aback that he let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Political influence? An old Gypsy woman?"  
  
"I don't mean the usual kind." She sounded rattled. "Maybe she threatened a political leader who believed in her 'occult powers,' as you do. Threatened to put a curse on _him_ if he didn't do her bidding."  
  
"You have an answer for everything. A good answer. The problem is, you're dead wrong."  
  
He felt tears well up in his eyes. "You believe I could end all this by an act of will, don't you? By simply not giving in to the power of suggestion."  
  
"I'm not accusing you of weakness, Andreas. Just...gullibility."  
  
"I admire you all the more for standing by me, knowing I'm attacking and killing people, if you believe I _could_ stop killing and I'm not strong enough to do it."  
  
Suddenly he was beside her, holding her, burying his face in her hair. "Oh God, 'admire' isn't the word! _I love you_."  
  
He felt her go rigid. "I...wasn't expecting you to use the word 'love.' " Her voice seemed oddly choked, "I love you too, Andreas."  
  
He was weeping freely, amazed at himself. "I would have...gone completely to pieces by now if it weren't for you. I've lost everyone else. Rejected by my son, betrayed by the one friend I was sure I could trust to the death...your devotion is the only thing keeping me sane.  
  
"It seems incredible to find real love when I least expected it, in the midst of a nightmare like this. But I understand now that I _couldn't_ love, all these years, until the affair with Norah--Peter's mother--was resolved."  
  
He shuddered. "Now, at least, it's over. I wound up with Norah dead in my arms, thought I'd never be able to stop screaming... And then, heaven help me, I couldn't even bury her. Had to leave the body for Peter to find, to delay him. It was the only way I could think of to avoid a kill-or-be-killed confrontation with my own son."  
  
"I...I'm sorry, Andreas. But I'm here for you now, I always will be."  
  
They kissed, then threw themselves on the bed and made passionate love. He wouldn't have thought it possible, on this day, with the horrible uncertainty of last night still weighing on him... After the lovemaking he was even able to sleep, briefly, in her arms.  
  
He woke ahead of her and sat quietly in bed, toying with his ring, burnishing its massive red stone. When she woke, he showed it to her.  
  
"This is the price Marushka demanded for saving my life."  
  
"_That? _I assumed she wanted something you didn't have and couldn't get. More wealth than you had, wealth the Revolution had taken away from you. Why didn't you simply give it to her?"  
  
"Believe it or not, when she came to my prison cell, the ring was stuck on my finger. A little soap would have loosened it, but I didn't have any.  
  
"And that bloodthirsty witch actually proposed chopping my finger off! Fortunately for me, she couldn't find anything to chop with. Not surprising, in a prison cell... So she had to agree to accept payment later."  
  
"I can understand that. But why is the ring so important? It doesn't look valuable.  
  
"And why didn't you give it to her after you were released? You didn't have it with you, did you, when she surprised us in Marseilles?"  
  
"No, I didn't." He sighed. "It's a magical ring. If I had possessed it long enough to master its powers, I wouldn't have needed Marushka to save me from the guillotine."  
  
She made a soft sound of disbelief and disgust, and he almost smiled. "Then, I confess, I overestimated my powers vis-a-vis hers. I was correct in believing she couldn't force me to reveal where I'd hidden it--and killing me would have defeated her purpose. I didn't realize what else she might do.  
  
"I suppose I should have given it to her. But I had a new reason for wanting to keep it...  
  
"According to legend, this ring makes it possible for the wearer to begin a new life. Which can mean a great many things. When I first acquired it I had crazy, romantic ideas about starting over with my lost love. And my son. That was why I went back to America, instead of fleeing France in some other direction.  
  
"I should have learned my lesson from the way that turned out. But by the time Marushka found us in Marseilles, I had conceived the notion that the ring _was_ helping me begin a new life--with _you_."   
  
She stiffened. "You denied her the ring because of me?"  
  
"Yes. Foolish, of course. Real love doesn't need magical aids.  
  
"And now it's brought me a very different kind of new life. As a werewolf! That's the problem with vaguely worded magical promises. They can mean so many things..." He brushed tears from his eyes.  
  
She held him close, kissed him. "I still don't believe in magic. But other kinds of promises _are_ real. _This_ is real. I promise you, we _will_ find Marushka and give her the ring! And everything will be all right. _We'll_ be all right."  
  
Then she pulled away from him with a reassuring pat. "I'm going to take my bath now. The day must be half over!"  
  
"You're right." He stayed on the edge of the bed as she padded away. Listened, smiling, to the refreshingly normal sounds of splashing water that came from the next room a few minutes later.  
  
He felt better, thanks to her. But it still hurt to know she thought him weak, didn't believe in the objective reality of the werewolf curse.  
  
It would be easy to let her witness the transformation. But he had vowed never to do that. He knew his werewolf self could not hurt her, not directly, while she was wearing the pentagram. But there were other dangers. According to folklore, the sight of werewolf transformations had sometimes caused witnesses to go mad. And sometimes, their hair had turned white overnight...  
  
Her hair. Oh God, her beautiful auburn hair! To some, it might seem a trivial consideration. But he would never let anything happen to those glorious locks.  
  
He looked up--and burst out laughing. He was looking at his own blurry image in the mirror, and atop it, a fringe of brown curls with iron-gray roots. The lingering legacy of his "Ben Stokes period."  
  
Then a zany thought struck him. What if _her_ color came out of a dye-bottle?  
  
She was still splashing away... He grabbed his spectacles, went over to her traveling-case and opened it. What if her hair _was_ dyed? It would make no difference to him, of course. But he could already imagine the fun he'd have, teasing her about it. He needed some fun in his life... Chuckling, he began rummaging through her things.  
  
And found the Tarot cards.  
  
He stopped dead.   
  
Tarot cards. Fashionable, in certain circles. In someone else's luggage, he would have thought nothing of a deck of Tarot cards. But in _her_ luggage? A woman who rejected all forms of occultism as nonsense?  
  
He looked more closely...and felt a chill. These were no ordinary Tarot cards. A special deck. The rare, secret cards used by...the Gypsies...  
  
He burrowed frantically. Letters, stacks of them. Here was the one she'd read aloud yesterday, about a relative's wedding plans...already, that seemed a century ago.  
  
Journals. Memos. Notes on occult researches. Dear God, why had she lied?  
  
What was this? It looked like some sort of _recipe_... He almost brushed it aside with the letters. Then his mind registered some of the ingredients. What in God's name...  
  
He flipped it over. A note.  
.  
.  
_Remember, this mixture is not poisonous. It will be perfectly safe for you to drink it with him, so as not to arouse his suspicions. All it will do to him is make him vulnerable to my curse.  
  
I will be waiting, tomorrow fortnight, in Marseilles.  
  
M._  
.  
.  
He sank to his knees, clutching the scrap of paper, his legs suddenly turned to jelly. Then he looked up and saw her. Realized he had never known her, never known her at all.  
  
_"Why?"_ It came out in a choked scream. "For God's sake, why? What had I ever done to you?"  
  
She flinched. "Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm sorry, Andreas. It was nothing personal."  
  
_"Nothing...personal?"_  
  
"I was Marushka's student. She was teaching me the secrets of the Tarot, other mysteries. You should understand that." She backed away from him. "And she said she'd let me watch her put the curse on you, if she had to do it. I was simply paying her price.  
  
"But I hardly knew you then! I fell in love with you, really, when it was too late. I do love you, I swear it!"  
  
His mind was reeling. "Love?" He tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. "What were you planning to do to me next?  
  
"Oh God, the _ring_. You didn't know what Marushka wanted, and I just told you! You would have taken it off my finger tonight, wouldn't you, while I slept? Used it to buy some more _lessons!_"  
  
"No! Andreas, I did know she wanted that ring. I've known all along. I could have taken it a dozen times. And I really don't know where Marushka is--" Babbling, clutching the pentagram. As if that could help her now.  
  
He struggled to make out her face, through a blur of tears. Saw no love in her eyes--how could there be? And no genuine regret. Only terror, the same terror that had gripped Danielle Roget as she was being dragged to the guillotine.  
  
And he shrieked, "Get out! Out, out! Do you hear me? _Get out!_" Then he let the tears come, and collapsed on the floor, sobbing brokenly, as the sound of Natalie DuPres's running feet echoed down the hall.  
.  
.  
.  
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An hour later, safe--for the moment--in a convent, Natalie penned a hurried letter to her brother. She had decided not to go back to Martinique. If Petofi wanted revenge when the shock wore off, that would be the first place he'd look. And not Collinsport, not yet--though she'd have to go there for Josette's wedding.  
  
New York. That was it. She'd ask her brother to send her maid to meet her in New York. She'd left the girl half-trained, but it would probably be as hard to hire servants in New York as in republican France. At least Angelique was fluent in both French and English.  
  
With her plans made, she finally took time to think about what had happened. And found herself holding the pentagram. Remembering her lover's tear-filled eyes, his shaking hands, as he fastened the chain around her neck...  
  
She lifted the pentagram to her lips and kissed it.  
.  
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.  
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.  
It was the death of the unicorn that caused him to snap.  
  
He screamed. Wept. Railed at the servants, then beat them unmercifully. Though he knew the oversight was his own. If it had occurred to him that the animal might be in danger, he could have protected it by affixing a pentagram to its horn.   
  
The servants fled and never came back. Then he raged through the estate like a cyclone, smashing windows, furniture, works of art. Stopped just short of torching the house.  
  
When his fury was spent, he dragged himself back to the mangled body of the unicorn. Cradled it in his arms like an injured baby, caressing it, keening over it, for two full days before he faced the necessity of burying it.  
  
He had never realized he loved it so much. But on reflection, he understood. Every human he had ever cared for had rejected or betrayed him. Only a pet had given him innocent, unconditional love. The fact that the pet was an irreplaceable unicorn had nothing to do with it. He would have grieved as intensely for a puppy.  
  
But something within him--his capacity for love, for mercy--had died with the unicorn. Now he wanted revenge.  
  
Oddly, he felt no bitterness toward Marushka. She was simply an enemy, like the dead Danielle Roget. They had never owed him anything, never deceived him. But the others...friend, lover, son..._they would pay_.  
.  
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.  
He stood alone, naked save for his ring, in the deepest dungeon of his ancestors' moldering castle. Even his spectacles had been laid carefully aside.  
  
A half-dozen grimoires lay open on the long-unused instruments of torture that served as furniture. He could not actually read from them without his glasses; but fortunately, he had no need to. He had committed the relevant passages to memory decades ago. Though he had never expected to use them...  
  
The dungeon was lit by a forest of black candles. To his nearsighted eyes, the scores of separate flames blended into one. He saw himself surrounded by a curtain of fire, alive with coruscating colors unknown outside madmen's dreams.  
  
The potion in the goblet he raised to his lips contained ingredients so loathsome that no sorcerer in the past century had been able to drink it without choking--and nullifying the spell. He took a deep breath to steady himself, decided against sipping, and unflinchingly swallowed a mouthful of the vile brew.  
  
And now the curtain of fire invaded him, coursing through his veins and his very soul. He felt its searing tendrils twist and turn within him, winding their sinuous way into every atom of his being, burning away the human weakness that had kept him less than his full, real self. Other worlds danced on the edge of vision, sang to him from the crackling flames without and within.  
  
In a ringing voice he spoke words older than humankind, older than Earth itself. Then he took another swallow, and felt himself borne on waves of fire as a thousand explosions within him opened doors to eldritch realities that flooded chittering and gibbering into his own.   
  
Thus he continued for what might have been hours, years, or eons, alternately chanting and drinking, from a goblet that should have held no more than a half-dozen swallows. When he had no more need of it, the cup faded from his awareness as though it had never been.  
  
A chasm yawned before him, and he marveled, even as he recognized that it might exist only in his mind. He began slowly and confidently to descend, and a staircase flowed into being beneath his feet. His ring was glowing like a red-hot coal, so he held that hand extended, a beacon to light his way.  
  
At the foot of the stairs he was enveloped in mist, surrounded by slobbering, malodorous beings that brushed obscenely against him. Sure his thoughts could be heard, he quietly resolved that there would be no deals made in this realm, no trite "sale of his soul." Only the imposition of _his_ will.  
  
Then he found himself facing a shambling behemoth three times his height, with leathery bat wings that flapped incessantly. The demon's body bore random patches of stinking hair, and equally random ones of decomposing flesh. The rest of its surface was covered with scales; they glittered in nightmare hues. But its eyes blazed red, remarkably like the mortal's ring.  
  
Petofi reached out with the strong right hand that wore that ring. He grasped the demon by its own right hand, and after a titanic struggle, forced it to its knees. As his strength prevailed, he bellowed, "My will be done!"  
  
And the demon hissed abjectly, "Thy will be done."  
  
Still holding it down, he felt Power flow from the demon's hand into his own, Power that was fire and ice and a million knife-points, all at once. And he knew, with stunning clarity, that he could use the Power to free himself and his descendants from the werewolf curse, _or_ to take revenge on his enemies. But not both.  
  
He wavered. Then the image of the dead unicorn rose, unbidden, in his mind. He compressed his lips, and unconsciously tightened his grip on the demon's hand until the creature moaned in pain.  
  
"Ben Stokes," he said softly. And a red-glowing orb hung before him, an orb that might have been a magnified twin to the stone in his ring. Or a demon's eye...  
  
In its hellish glow he saw Ben, still laboring at Collinwood, dodging a kick from the master he hated.  
  
"Ben Stokes," he intoned. "You whose only desire is to escape Collinwood and the Collins family... Freedom will seem to be within your grasp, but you will never be able to reach out and take it. The problems and perfidies of the Collins family will ruin your life, cause your death.  
  
"And you will not find freedom even in death. In your next incarnation, a century hence, you will once again be drawn to Collinwood. Drawn inexorably into the web of the Collins family...to misery, terror, and death. So mote it be!"  
  
"So mote it be," echoed the sullen demon.  
  
"Natalie DuPres." The vision in the red orb changed, flickered uncertainly...then solidified into a jewel-clear image of Natalie as she pulled a gown from her traveling-case and shook it out. Petofi could almost hear the rustling of the fabric. He knew intuitively that she was in New York.  
  
And then...someone else stepped into the scene. A fleeting impression of hair like spun gold. Then the vision shimmered, wavered, as light seemed to glance off the blond girl and shine back into his eyes. For a moment, its brilliance blinded him.  
  
Startled, he concentrated his will and brought the girl back into focus. But it required all his strength to keep the image clear.  
  
He stared at her, fascinated. A servant, barely out of her teens. But he sensed in this youngster a Power that would one day rival his own. Even now, if she was loyal to her mistress, she might be able to--  
  
He gasped, staggered, as the girl in the vision turned and _looked directly at him_. China-blue eyes locked on his, eyes that seemed able to read his mind, his soul.  
  
And then..._she smiled wickedly_. Smiled and withdrew, to let him do his worst. But he knew he would see Angelique Bouchard again, and his pulse quickened at the prospect. He hoped he would not have long to wait.  
  
With an effort, he recalled himself to the matter at hand. "Natalie DuPres..." As he spoke her name a weight settled on his shoulders, and he was once again immersed in the ugly reality of treachery and revenge.  
  
"Natalie DuPres. You who chose not to have children, so they could never cause you grief... You have a niece--yes, a niece. You will find you care more for her than you have ever thought possible. The tragedy of her life will break your heart, and cause your death.  
  
"In your next incarnation, a century hence, you will want children and be unable to have them. You will once again come to care deeply for a sibling, for that sibling's children. And once again, their tragedies will break your heart. So mote it be!"  
  
"So mote it be," muttered the demon.  
  
He paused, frowning. It wasn't enough.  
  
Suddenly, inspiration struck. He remembered Natalie's niece was betrothed to a member of the Collins family. Natalie would be going to Collinwood for the wedding. She would actually meet his other betrayer, Ben Stokes!  
  
"Ben Stokes," he rasped. "You who have never had the stomach to kill... You will accidentally kill Natalie DuPres. Grief and guilt will gnaw at you throughout the rest of a long life.  
  
"In your next incarnation, a century hence, your paths will cross again. You will fall in love and marry. And this time _you_, Natalie, will be the cause of _his_ death! And grief and guilt will torment _you_ all the days of _your_ life. So mote it be!"  
  
"So mote it be." Petofi heard grudging admiration in the demon's voice.  
  
"Peter Bradford." The red orb refocused to let him see Peter, in--_a jail cell?_ What was this? Had Peter run afoul of the law already, been arrested on charges of being a werewolf?  
  
No. As the scene became clear, he realized Peter was the jailer. He snorted in disgust. Then he grasped the implications. To be able to hold that steady a job, Peter must have found a way to escape the curse. The son had succeeded where the sorcerer father had failed! Petofi growled deep in his throat.  
  
"Peter Bradford. My son... I decree for you the fate you wished for your father: death by execution! And whatever enchantment you have found, however it might protect you from death by other means, it will not protect you from this my curse."  
  
His lip curled in a venomous smile. "And in your next incarnation, a century hence, you and I shall meet again--" He paused, perplexed. Dimly aware that in that distant future he would still be Andreas Petofi, still be alive in _this_ body...  
  
No matter. "In this life I loved you as a son, offered you your birthright. And you accused me of trying to 'buy' you. Very well. In your next incarnation, my incorruptible Peter, I _will_ 'buy' you. I will _own_ you. And you will be, not my son, but my _slave!_ So mote it be!"  
  
"So mote it be," rumbled the demon.  
  
There was a peal of thunder, so joltingly close that Petofi fell to his knees. Then the hell-world dissolved around him, and he was thrust gasping and floundering back into a castle dungeon in eighteenth-century Hungary.  
  
He found himself kneeling on a hard stone floor. He could still hear distant rolls of thunder.  
  
The candles had long since burned out--_all_ of them. The dungeon was black as pitch, cold as ice...cold as a demon's heart. Petofi's naked body was drenched in sweat, and the mighty sorcerer began shivering uncontrollably.  
  
He struggled to his feet, then stood hugging himself in a vain attempt to generate warmth. Where were his clothes? He had no idea where he had left them. The torture chamber he knew so well by candlelight was uncharted territory now, vast and terrifying.  
  
A slight tingling in his hand told him he still had the Power. But he knew with dreadful certainty that he had overextended himself, exhausted the Power for now, and would have to rest and recuperate before he could use it again. At present he was only a man, helpless and half-frozen.  
  
He took a step, knocked something over, and almost went sprawling. Grimly, he steadied himself. Tried to ignore the chattering of his teeth.  
  
A rat brushed against his leg.  
  
_Think_. The first necessity was to find his glasses. They would be of no use in these inky-black depths; but without them, he would be almost as helpless after he reached an area to which light could penetrate. _Find the glasses_.  
  
He took another tentative step, groping for the makeshift table where he had left them--and pain stabbed into the sole of his bare left foot. He felt the crunch of breaking glass.  
  
For the last time in his life, Andreas Petofi allowed himself to weep.  
.  
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(The End)  



End file.
